The Five Orange Pipes
by Copgirl
Summary: I took the name of the title from the original Sherlock story "The Five Orange Pips". John Watson is asked to help a sick, homeless man who lives in the underground of London. John gets trapped in an old bunker, which is about to be detonated, hunted by a madman, who does his best to kill the doctor.
1. Prologue

This story was "bought" by Johnsarmylady at the tumblr birthday auction for Mark Gatiss. She wished that I put John Watson in danger. Well, I did.

The events of this story take place a couple of weeks after "The Hound of Baskerville", with John having not quite forgotten the events in laboratory.

I own nothing but my heartfelt thanks to Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and of course Sir ACD for giving us those fabolous characters.

My thanks also go to Mapleleafcameo for kicking out serveral of the mistakes I made.

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><p>The hour had just struck three as John Watson was sitting in front of his computer, shivering almost imperceptibly. He was uncertain if the physical reaction was caused by the low temperature in the flat or due to the aftermath of the horror he had experienced just so recently.<p>

The sudden touch of a woollen blanket that was being draped around his shoulders startled the doctor and he flinched.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized softly.

"It's all right." John tried to appear calm but the light tremor in his voice as well as the hunched shoulders gave him away to the ever-observant consulting detective. For a moment Sherlock allowed both hands to rest upon the blanket, before he walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

John wished Sherlock's hands were back on his shoulders, missing both the warmth which had seeped through the blanket as well as the comfort the touch had provided. Seeing his friend making tea bemused John. Was Sherlock as much affected by the close call as he was or did he merely think John was in need of being fussed over?

Either way, John didn't complain when a cup with the steaming tea and a dash of milk was put on the table, right next to his laptop. He took the cup in both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea, not even noticing that he closed his eyes while doing so.

Sherlock sat down across from John, resting his chin on his hands and fixing the doctor with his gaze. Seeing his friend so vulnerable pained Sherlock more than he let on. He had never been comfortable touching other people but felt that the simply gesture of putting his hands upon John's shoulders had relaxed the man and provided the comfort he was obviously in need of. The moment was gone and Sherlock knew that repeating the action wouldn't work. Instead of feeling comforted, it would merely puzzle John and make both of them feel awkward.

"Do you..."

"Thank you!"

Both men had spoken simultaneously.

John opened his eyes and returned his friend's calm gaze.

"Do I want to talk about what happened?"

Sherlock nodded encouragingly.

John didn't answer right away, wondering if he wanted to relive the hours underground; trapped, hunted while having expected to get buried alive.

The detective observed the emotions that were flickering across John's face. "You don't have to." He looked down at his hands that were mirroring John's, holding the teacup exactly the same way. "Writing the blog probably is as good as talking to me, perhaps even better."

There was no hurt in Sherlock's voice but John felt the need to contradict him in this point and shook his head.

"You know that that is not true. Besides," he turned the laptop for Sherlock to see what he had written up to this point, "I only managed to write down the headline so far."

"The Five Orange Pipes," Sherlock said uncommitted, having read the headline when he had provided John with the blanket.

John shrugged. "A name as good as any."

The tremor that ran across John's shoulders a few seconds later told Sherlock otherwise and that his friend was perhaps not ready but willing to talk. By sinking further into his chair, he anchored himself for the story he was about to hear.


	2. Chapter 1

John pulled up the zip of his jacket as far as it would go and ducked his head. The temperatures weren't exactly at freezing point but the strong wind seemed to pull every ounce of warmth out of his jacket. Thinking that he should have worn a scarf, John hurried getting back home.

He had already fished the keys from his pocket to unlock the front-door when a young man, clad in ragged jeans and two hoodies he wore on top of one another, walked up to him.

"You're the Doctor?" he asked.

John turned and studied the man before he gave a nod.

"Friend of mine `s sick. Sherlock said you would help when necessary."

John guessed the man, undoubtedly he belonged to Sherlock's homeless network, probably wasn't a day older than twenty-three although he looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He was in need of a haircut but the pale skin as well as the blond hair were clean.

"And you are?"

"Cy! That's short for Cyrus."

John nodded. "Do you want to come inside?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

As he had expected, Cyrus shook his head.

"When can you come?"

"What's wrong with your friend?"

"Had a cold and coughed, now he has trouble breathing."

'_Pneumonia_', John thought. Common enough amongst people who lived on the streets and slept in damp places. He asked Cyrus where he would find his friend and promised he'd be there in an hour. First he had to fetch his bag and some medication. When he noticed the longing gaze Cyrus had directed at the two bags from Tesco, he offered him one of the apples he had bought. The man took the piece of fruit with a curd nod and ate it with a relish while scurrying away.

Once John had stored the food he pondered whether he should have a cup of tea before heading out into the cold but decided against it. He took his bag, sent Sherlock a text with the location Cyrus had provided him with and left.

oOo

DI Greg Lestrade sat in the back of an ambulance shivering from being beyond cold.

"You are the incarnation of an idiot, Sherlock!" he shouted at the man who sat next to him. "I told you back-up would be here in five minutes but no, the great consulting detective had to show off and expose the fishmonger right in front of his chums."

A sneezing-fit interrupted the Inspector's rant.

"The second ambulance will be here within a few minutes. Please, don't kill each other," the unfortunate paramedic, who was stuck with Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade in the ambulance that had arrived first, implored.

He was glared at by an utterly miserable looking Sherlock, who was mourning the hopefully temporary loss of his coat and his phone.

Once Sherlock had exposed the fishmonger, who had killed his wife as well as her lover in a fit of jealousy, the fishmonger and three of his friends had attacked both him and the DI. The Inspector and Sherlock had been thrown into the icy water of the lock facility and in the process Sherlock's Belstaff had gotten caught on some hook underwater. He had only been able to reach the surface by abandoning the beloved piece of clothing.

The fishmonger had been caught a few minutes later by the promised backup but both Sherlock and Greg had spent several very long minutes in the water.

"I don't want to see you again until next year," Greg told Sherlock, sneezing again.

"Since you will be down with a bad cold over the next week or two and my brother isn't likely to make a sick call, the comment is somewhat superfluous, don't you think, Inspector?"

"Get out!" Both Sherlock and Greg shouted in unison at Mycroft Holmes, who had managed to appear so very quietly inside the ambulance one could suspect he was not a man but a ghost.

The Government official's eyes slanted but nothing gave his feelings away. "Well then, since my presence obviously isn't required, good afternoon. Sherlock, Detective Inspector."

Mycroft closed the door of the ambulance with a soft click, which really shouldn't be possible since those doors needed to be slammed shut. Still, he managed to do just that, which made his exit somewhat creepy.

Sherlock tried to give an air of smugness but Greg shook his head. "That's not good, Sherlock. He's going to make us regret that we threw him out."

"What's he going to do?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Perhaps if he just doesn't do anything it is worse than if he does something."

The paramedic had watched the scene with disbelief, the atmosphere within the ambulance going from aggressive to gloom within a minute. He was quite relieved when the second ambulance arrived and the older one of his patients, once he had exchanged glances with the younger man, left without a word.


	3. Chapter 2

Please accept my apologies for the mistakes regarding how John is treating a medical condition in this chapter. Obviously I'm not a doctor. Thanks Savoi for having a last minute look at the story. Amazing how I keep overlooking mistakes I've made. Guess I need a few Betas instead of just one.

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><p>John followed Cyrus down a metal staircase that lead to a narrow pathway, which ran parallel to the tracks of the underground. He had found the young man, or rather Cyrus had found him, in front of the Arsenal Megastore at Finsbury Station.<p>

"How much further do we have to go, Cy?" John asked after they had been weaving their way through a labyrinth of junctions and branches for a good ten minutes, negotiating their way through the semi-darkness with torches.

"Almost there," Cyrus replied and indeed, when they turned around another corner, a tiny room, barely bigger than a cupboard, was on the right hand side. Most of the space was taken up by an air mattress on which a man was lying. Light was provided by two oil lamps that hung from hooks in the wall.

Cyrus bent down and shook the man's shoulder. "Carl, it's Cy. Brought you the doctor." He stood up again and made room for John, who knelt down next to the man on the air mattress.

The medical examination didn't take very long. John had worked in Afghanistan under worse conditions than light provided by a torch and the oil lamps. Quite certain Carl had pneumonia, John left a cough syrup, the order not only to drink plenty of water or preferable hot tea and, most important, that if the condition should not improve within the next three days or even get worse, he was to be called immediately.

"The cough syrup is only for the night. It doesn't do anything but make your throat feel less itchy," John explained to Carl. "Guess I can't convince you to stay at least a week in one of the shelters?"

Carl smiled softly but shook his head.

He handed Cyrus a prescription for an antibiotic. "Cy, when we're done here you go to the next chemist's shop to get those for Carl, okay?"

Cyrus nodded, shoving the signed paper into the pocket of his jeans.

Before John left, Carl took hold of his hand.

"Thanks for helping me, Doctor." He coughed and cleared his throat. "A bit further down lives a couple with a baby that is about four month old. Martha is a good woman but her husband is stark raving mad. Would you have a look at Martha and the baby?"

"Does Cyrus know the way?" John asked.

Carl nodded. "Make absolutely sure you leave before Charlie is back. He doesn't like people. But you should be safe. He never comes back before seven."

John had no idea how Carl knew the time but when he checked his watch is was half past six. A good twenty minutes should be enough time to have a quick look. If necessary he could always come back.

Cyrus and John walked about another hundred meters before coming to a dead end where a flight of stairs led down.

"I don't like going down there," Cyrus told John. "If Charlie is there, we have to leave immediately, all right?"

John nodded.

The air was damp and smelled of mould. At the bottom of the staircase was another passageway that for some reason had been equipped with electric lighting. The cable that connected the lamps was nailed to the wall. After a few yards John discovered a heavy metal door that stood wide open, the entrance obviously leading into an old bunker.

Before he had a chance for a closer look, Cyrus nudged him not too gently.

"We need to keep going. You can go investigate another time."

John nodded. It was only a minute later that they came round a corner and suddenly stood in front of an old wooden door. Instead of knocking, Cyrus pressed one finger to his lips and slowly opened the door to peer inside the room. He gave a soft sigh of relief and opened the door completely, knocking against the wood while doing that and calling out.

"Who're you?" A woman, barely eighteen years old, stared at both men. For a moment John's gaze swivelled to an enormous figure chiselled into the stonewall, before it returned to the woman. She was dressed in sweat-pants, trainers and a dress with long sleeves and in her arm she cradled a bundle that probably contained the baby. The room itself was sparsely furnished with a mattress, a clothes rail that was laden with a colourful compilation of clothes, a small table, two chairs and two buckets. The light was provided by a naked light bulb that was dangling from the ceiling on a single cable.

"Martha, this is a doctor. He's here to have a look at your baby," Cyrus replied.

The woman studied John warily. "I know no doctor," she said.

"I'm John Watson. I was told you had a baby and I just want to check if it's all right," John said with his most soothing voice.

"How do you know Billy's not all right?" Martha asked.

"Billy isn't all right?"

"No. He drank three hours ago, now he doesn't." Suddenly Martha stepped forward and thrust the bundle into John's arms. "Make that he drinks again."

John carried the bundle to a table that was covered by a bed sheet instead of a tablecloth. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Cyrus looking around nervously.

He put the bundle onto the table but the moment he pulled the blanket aside he saw that he was too late. The baby was dead. It had probably died shortly after Martha had fed it three hours ago.

He bit his bottom lip, seeing the woman studied him with small black eyes. John cleared his throat.

"Martha, I fear there's nothing I can do for Billy."

She stepped closer. "Why? What have you done to him?"

"Nothing," John replied. "See, I've just laid him down here on the table. I am sorry but I fear Billy is dead." He gently pulled the blanket to cover the small body again.

Cyrus took a step backwards, his eyes going wide. "We should leave, now!"

The woman's gaze kept shifting between John's face that was full of compassion and the body of the dead baby that was lying on the table.

"Billy ate and now he don't. What have you done?" Martha's voice was turning shrill.

"Doctor, we should really leave..."

Before Cyrus could finish the sentence the door flew open, crashing into the wall with a bang that resounded through the room. A wiry man with large brown eyes and a mop of dark-brown hair stood in the doorway. A knapsack was slung over his left shoulder and he was holding a torch in his right hand. Cyrus paled visibly.

"Charlie," he stammered.

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><p>Thanks to Sky, magneta and Johnsarmylady for reviewing. And yes, I rather like cliffhangers.<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

John couldn't help but stare at the man's almost unnatural wide mouth. In combination with the angular face and the blue boiler suit he reminded him in a sickening way of a ventriloquist he had once seen at a cabaret he had visited when he had been at school. The ventriloquist had scared him

"Who are they?" Charlie demanded to know, as he stepped into the room, blocking the door with his body.

"I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor," John began to introduce himself, hoping he could calm the upset man. "And this is ..."

"I'm no-one," Cyrus interrupted him, clearly not wanting Charlie to know his name.

"He," Martha pointed at John, "came here for Billy."

"What do you want with our son?" Charlie growled.

"Like I said. I'm a doctor and I wanted to see if Billy was all right." John tried again to explain.

"That's what he told me too," Martha said. "But he's lying. Billy drank and then he came," Martha pointed at John accusingly, "and now Billy is dead."

John felt the blood drain from his face. The way Martha was talking implied he had killed the baby and a look at Charlie's face revealed that he believed every word he was hearing from Martha.

Before John could utter another word, Cyrus made a dash for the door. With amazing speed Charlie's hand went inside the knapsack and pulled out a knife. Cyrus hadn't even reached the door when the knife was thrown, burying itself into the man's back. Cyrus yelled in pain but he kept going. And Charlie returned his scrutiny back to John.

The doctor's thoughts were racing. He hadn't brought his gun and even if he had, a gun was not for combat at a short distance. The only option he had was fight Charlie with his bare hands, maybe hit him with the handle of the torch. Very slowly Charlie reached inside his knapsack again to pull out a combat knife. John didn't need to look closely to see that the blade was extremely sharp. His opponent still stood between him and the door, the only route of escape. Studying the man, John felt his inner self shifting, changing from 'kind medic' to 'bad ass mother fucker soldier'.

Charlie must have seen it too because he took a step back. The step back gave John the chance which he promptly took.

With three steps he reached Charlie's personal space. He stepped onto his left foot as hard as he could, rammed his shoulder into the man's stomach and used his momentum to swing his fist in a hook into his jaw. Charlie stumbled backwards, fell and John ran for the door. Before he reached it though, he saw something flying towards his head. It was nothing but a ceramic mug Martha had hurled but it hit him in the side of his face. The mug broke and a shard left a cut at one eyebrow but John kept going.

He slammed the door shut behind him and ran towards the staircase. Before he could reach the stairs he heard the sound of his pursuer. Still, he had a bit of a head-start and desperation made him run only faster. Unfortunately, the narrow staircase was blocked by the slumped body of Cyrus. Climbing over the body would take too much time, so John turned left and ran through the open door of the bunker, hoping that Charlie wouldn't follow or that he could hide and make his escape later on. He ran into the darkness, not wanting to give away his location by using the torch.

By sheer luck he missed an open shaft in the floor, went around a corner and found himself in a long corridor. Stopping to catch his breath, John strained his ears. The sound of running feet was clearly audible, stopping ever so often.

"Eight, nine, ten, coming!" he could hear Charlie's voice that sounded like the voice of a child that was playing hide and seek.

Feeling goosebumps rising, John took off his shoes and socks quickly. He put on the shoes again and pulled his socks on top of the shoes, muffling his steps efficiently before he hurried further into the darkness of the bunker.


	5. Chapter 4

John kept walking as quickly as he dared in the all-encompassing darkness; one hand at the wall next to him, the other one stretched out in front to prevent that he'd walk into an obstacle. He was avoiding walking into any room, door cases under his fingers alerting him when it was a room in contrast to a junction where the wall simply ended.

He made left as well as right turns wondering about the sheer size of the bunker facility. At one point the doctor was startled when something on the wall was running away from underneath his groping fingers. John wasn't afraid of spiders but that didn't mean he was fond of touching them. Furthermore the eight-legged specimen that had scrambled away had felt rather big to his fingers.

Ever so often John stopped but after Charlie had called out a few times in that childlike fashion, he had stayed quiet. Probably the man had decided he was more likely to catch John when he didn't give away his location by calling out. Now all he could hear were his own steps, his breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Deciding he needed to come up with a plan, John stopped at the next doorway. Shielding the beam of his torch with a hand and his jacket, he illuminated it for a moment for he was much more likely to walk into a piece of furniture or any other obstacle inside a room than in the corridor.

The room looked like a changing room, a few metal lockers in the middle, hangers on the walls and a couple of benches. When John sat down he noticed how very tired he was. He pulled the backpack from his shoulders and opened the water-bottle he always carried with him. The water tasted fresh and provided immediate relief. Returning the bottle to his backpack he became aware of a stinging sensation over his left eye where a shard of the mug Martha had hurled at him had nicked his skin. Because of the adrenalin coursing through his body he had not felt the pain of the small injury. Touching his cheek he felt it was wet. Bloody hell! If he had been bleeding he had probably left a visible trail for Charlie to follow if he cared to look. Sneaking back to the doorway he listened for footsteps and when all was quiet he switched on the torch again. Yes, a couple of tiny drops of blood were visible on the floor. So far Charlie had walked in the darkness too but if he chose to use his own torch he would quickly notice the drops of blood.

John left the room and walked further down the corridor, squeezing a bit of blood from the wound. After about fifty meters he pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it to the cut and hurried back into the direction he had come from. He walked on the other side of the corridor, trying to avoid stepping into the trail of blood. After several minutes he entered another room, hoping he would be safe there for some time. He needed time to rest and review his situation.

oOo

"What do you mean you forgot to close it?"

"Just that. I forgot. It was just this one door. Fat chance somebody wandered into the damn bunker all of a sudden. So let's just go and seal if for good so they can go and blow it up tomorrow just as planned."

"I don't see why I have to come along, Vinny."

"Come on, Pete. It's fucking creepy down there. I'll buy you a pint, okay?"

"All right," Pete agreed grudgingly.

The two men, dressed in boiler suits and helmets hurried along the pathway and down the narrow staircase John and Cyrus had walked three hours earlier. When they reached the wide open door to the bunker, Pete shone with his torch into the darkness and called out.

"Hello, anybody there?"

They listened before Vinny shrugged and removed a couple of large bolts, nuts and a handlebar from the inside of the door.

"What are you doing?" Pete asked when his companion put the parts inside a bag he had slung over his shoulder.

"My brother works in a hardware store. Those parts are still pretty expensive and worth a couple of pints and a pie."

"Seriously?" Pete blinked.

"God's truth."

Pete pursed his lips. "Guess it doesn't matter since they're going to blow up the whole damn place anyway. Nobody's going to miss the parts."

Vinny nodded, closed the heavy door, turned the large wheel on the outside to seal it and began removing the wheel. Now the door could neither be opened from the inside nor from the outside; just like the other doors he had closed and sealed before. "Unfortunately, I have to turn in the wheel together with the other three. I was told to remove them."

Pete shrugged. "Can't have everything. Now let's go get that pint."

They walked back to the staircase where Pete stopped dead in his tracks. "Jesus fucking Christ, is that blood?" He pointed with the beam of his torch to a fat dark puddle on the forth and fifth step.

"Sure is," Vinny replied. "Recon we didn't step in it on the way down. Prolly would've slipped."

They looked at each other and without another word began climbing the stairs, hurrying to get outside as quickly as possible.

Squeamish from the encounter with the blood, Vinny yelled in alarm when a man in ragged clothes suddenly stepped in their path.

"Need help," Carl rasped. He had seen the two men passing and had managed to get up, waiting for them to return.

"Don't touch me!" Vinny screamed. He pushed Carl into the chest and the weakened man slammed into the wall before falling to the ground. He watched helplessly as the men in the boiler-suits ran away. Too weak to get up again, he crawled to the motionless body of Cyrus who was lying dead in a pool of blood on the mattress Carl had occupied a few hours before. Wondering what he could do, Carl pulled the knife from Cyrus' back and began to scratch letters into the hard floor.


	6. Chapter 5

Greg Lestrade could finally switch off his computer. Once he had taken a shower at home and changed into dry clothes, he had returned to his office to write the report on the evidence provided by Sherlock, the assault by the fishmonger and his friends and the arrest that had followed. Mycroft probably had been right. He would be down with a cold within the next twenty-four hours so it was best to write down the information as long as it was fresh and not muddled by the inevitable head cold.

Greg knew he would work more efficiently if he learned to dictate but he had never got a hang of it.

Downing the rest of his now cold tea, he got up and shrugged into his coat. Having added the file with his report to the stack on the DCI's desk, he was about to walk out of the building when Sally Donovan intercepted him.

"We've got a murder near Finsbury Station. Looks like a homeless man stabbed another in the back. Puzzling though he left some sort of a note, scratched into the ground."

"What about Dimmock and his team?" Greg asked.

"Busy with another case. A French tourist has been shot in front of the National Gallery."

"Retirement sounds better by the minute," Greg mumbled,

Sally gave him a lopsided smile, knowing her boss would either have to be forcefully evicted from NSY in another ten to fifteen years or die in the line of duty.

They arrived at the scene half an hour later. Pulling the disposable suit over his clothes, Greg listened to the initial report of the police officer who had arrived first on the scene.

"The bodies of two dead men were discovered about an hour ago. Looks like two homeless men who got into a fight. One was stabbed in the back, cause of death of the other is unknown. The name of the man who had been stabbed is Cyrus Winters, age twenty-two; the other man's name is unknown although an officer of BTP thinks that his name was Carl. He's supposed to have lived in the tunnels for more than a year and had been rather nondescript."

The DI studied the dead bodies that were lying inside a small room. He was fairly certain Cyrus Winters hadn't been killed here. The other dead man, Carl, was lying on his side, a knife with the residue of blood still clutched in his right hand. Interesting were the three large letters that had been etched into the hard floor.

K K K

He was about to call Sherlock when he remembered that his own phone had died an untimely death by drowning and Sherlock's mobile had got lost together with his Belstaff. Although Sherlock hated photos for they never showed him what he really needed to know, Greg moved aside for Anderson to start finding evidence and taking pictures. When the DI stood up he felt slightly dizzy and leaned against the wall. Apparently the head-cold was already well under way to knock him out for a few days. Without the reports from forensics and an autopsy performed both on Cyrus Winters and the man identified as Carl, there wasn't much they could do anyway. And if Carl was the offender, the case would be closed within a few days.

Best he got home and just maybe he would be all right once he had taken some paracetamol and slept for a few hours. He told Sally to take care of the crime scene for now, went outside and hitched a ride home with a patrol car.

* * *

><p>Those of you who know the Sherlock Holmes story "The Five Orange Pips" might remember that the letters KKK also played a role in that story.<p>

Thanks to all who read, review and follow the story.


	7. Chapter 6

John woke up with a start. For a split-second he had neither idea where he was nor what had woken him. Quickly he realized that he had actually fallen asleep in the room he had declared his hiding-place and that he had been woken by the soft glow of green light that had sprung to life in this room and beyond.

The light reminded John of the illumination that was frequently used in hospitals, conceived for the personnel for orientation without being too stressful for the patient who woke up at night. He had always hated the greenish light for it made everybody look frightfully sick, but now there was a new aspect. The green light reminded him of Baskerville. The events in the facility had been a mere two weeks ago and the doctor was still painfully aware of the lump in his throat the memory of the events created. The lump in his throat as well as the nip of the sharp tooth of betrayal he had felt upon Sherlock's behaviour. When the consulting detective had told him he had no friends but one, him, John, the feeling had not been completely subsided but had been counterbalanced by the confession.

Now, triggered by the green light, the panic he had felt when trapped in the laboratory, thinking he was being hunted by a giant hound, came back. John closed is eyes to concentrate on his breathing. Inhale, one two, exhale, one two three. Inhale, one two, exhale, one two three four. He forced himself to exhale considerably slower than he inhaled until he felt that the panic had subsided.

Being able to think clearly once again, he considered the fact that he was capable of seeing his surroundings, albeit tinged green. Charlie was probably familiar with the bunker, having lived in its vicinity for an unknown amount of time. He had probably raided the facility of whatever he and his wife slash girlfriend needed; if there had been something to raid in the first place.

Looking around, John didn't detect any cameras or microphones that could be used to locate him. He knew from experience that both cameras and microphones could be very small. It had its advantages dealing with Mycroft Holmes and his spooks. John came to the conclusion that at the time this bunker had been built, there had been no need for equipment that needed to be concealed.

John, refreshed from his kip, wondered if he would be able to set up a trap for Charlie. Now that it was light in the facility the man should be able to follow the trail of blood, provided Charlie noticed the small red dots on the grey concrete floor.

But first he planned on trying to return to the entrance of the bunker. And maybe, just maybe he was lucky and he could slip out of the bunker unnoticed while his pursuer was looking for him in another corridor.

Very carefully he went about finding his way back. It was very possible that Charlie would be lurking somewhere, waiting for him but somehow he didn't seem to be the type who had the patience to lie in waiting to ambush somebody.

His own trail of blood came quite handy, enabling him to find the way back. He tried to remember everything he had learned about sneaking through a building unnoticed. Patience and absolute silence were the key-factors.

John reached the corridor that led straight to the door of the bunker without detecting any traces of Charlie. Could he have switched on the light from outside? He doubted it. Finally he was on the last stretch of the corridor where the door of the bunker was visible. From his position it looked closed and he saw no locking mechanism. But that shouldn't be possible. Bunker-doors were supposed to be opened from the inside. He felt panic rising in his chest. He couldn't be locked in, could he? As quietly as possible he hurried the last twenty meters to the door. On his way he passed an open shaft that lead down to some sort of sub-basement. The opening was in the middle of the floor and John considered himself lucky that he hadn't fallen down the shaft earlier on when he had walked along the corridor in the dark.

The bunker's door indeed was locked. A handlebar had obviously been removed and there was no other way to open the door. He needed to retreat and find another exit.

When John turned around though he saw that less than five meters from his position Charlie was standing in the middle of the corridor. His instincts and reflexes saved the ex-army doctor's life moments later. Before his brain comprehended what he was doing, John threw himself to the left. Despite moving out of the way, he felt the sharp blade of the knife Charlie had thrown, slicing through his right side. It was painful but better than having the knife buried in his stomach where the man probably had been aiming for. He wasn't out of danger yet, because Charlie lunged at him.

Unable to move with his normal speed because of the wound in his side, the man's full weight hit John square in the chest. They tumbled to the ground but even while falling, John swung his fist, landing a couple of punches that took the wind out of Charlie.

In return the man managed to land one knee in John's groin, eliciting a yelp of pain. Before Charlie could gain any ground, John rolled out of reach and landed a kick at the man's knee. Charlie screamed in anger and fell on his back, twisting around and getting a hold of the knife again. Before John could react, the light went out.

For a second both men were startled by the complete darkness but then John could hear Charlie jumping up, running away from him with a speed he was only capable of because he was familiar with the layout of the bunker.

"Fuck!" John cursed. He knew there was no sense following Charlie. He needed to find a hideout, take care of his wound and come up with a plan.

All John really wanted was to get out of that damn bunker. Checking his watch he was startled to see that it was close to midnight. He had left Baker Street more than six hours ago. Having sent his text to Sherlock shortly after five, the consulting detective might have begun to wonder why his flat-mate wasn't back and would come to investigate. Unless he was wrapped up in a case, which naturally, would draw his attention so completely, Sherlock probably wouldn't miss him before he ran out of milk for tea or was otherwise inconvenienced.

oOo

Once he had returned home, Sherlock had started a fire in the fireplace. He had used up all the hot water while taking a shower and once he had called out for somebody, anybody really to make tea, he had grudgingly made some himself. Both the hot shower and the tea had done wonders for him and the fire had heated up the flat rather nicely. Before long Sherlock was able to bask on the sofa in his usual pyjamas and dressing-gown, bare feet directed towards the warmth the fireplace was radiating. He had begun contemplating the events that had led to the impromptu bath and had fallen asleep while doing so.

He was still asleep when Greg Lestrade came barging into the flat shortly after eight. Disturbed from his slumber, Sherlock growled at the Inspector, who waved a piece of paper in front of his nose.

"I need to talk to John," the DI rasped in a voice rough from a cold.

"He's not home," Sherlock said. If Greg had bothered to ask him how he knew, which he didn't, Sherlock would have been hard pressed to explain how he knew that the doctor hadn't come home. The flat somehow felt different when his flatmate was in.

"Where is he?"

Sherlock sat up and shook his head. "The last time I saw him was yesterday when he left for work."

"Any idea on his whereabouts? New girlfriend he might have stayed with?"

"During the week John hardly goes on a date or to the pub. He had been out shopping for groceries but must have left again. Most likely to see a patient." Sherlock started worrying about the doctor while he was talking.

"We found this in the pocket of a man who has been murdered." Greg showed Sherlock the piece of paper he had brought in a plastic jacket and the Consulting Detective's alarm went off. "Of course, it could be coincidence that he was carrying it."

Inside the plastic jacket was a prescription in John's handwriting, unlike the prescriptions from the surgery, which were printed. So the Doctor must have completed and handed it to a patient later on.

Without offering an explanation, Sherlock left the sofa and he ran first upstairs into John's room and right afterwards he checked the bathroom. The backpack the Doctor took when he went to see one of the homeless patients wasn't there. Also John hadn't taken a shower before he had left, obviously he had expected he wouldn't be out very long. Now the question that remained was, where had he gone and whom had he planned to meet?

Inwardly Sherlock cursed the loss of his phone. Usually John sent him a text explaining where he went but with the untimely demise of his mobile, Sherlock had no means of retrieving the message. Unless he went and asked his brother. The detective gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was to grovel.

Sherlock hurried into his room, got dressed and shrugged into his ersatz coat. Pointedly ignoring the amused look Greg Lestrade gave him, when he slung a scarf around his neck that looked suspiciously like one of John's, Sherlock walked out of the flat, with the DI in tow.


	8. Chapter 7

Once again John had taken up residence in one of the numerous rooms, this time to take care of the wound in his side. With utmost care he had cleaned the cut and even stitched up himself before covering it to keep it clean. He had been ready to fall asleep right then and there but decided to move once again. He knew he had left a trail of blood that led to this room. Before he left the room, he came up with an idea.

Inside his backpack he kept a multitude of small odds and ends, including some thread. He tied a stretch of the thread between two metal buckets he placed left and right of the opening of the room. Charlie wouldn't trip and fall but if one of his legs pressed to the thread, the buckets would move and make some noise, alerting John to his location. On a second thought John turned over two chairs, positioning them in a fashion to make it look like he had set up a trap. If Charlie hurt himself, all the better but all John wanted to accomplish was to distract the mad man from the fact that his prey would be close enough to hear when the buckets were knocked over.

Leaving the room, he tracked back the way he had come from, turned left at the next junction and kept walking until he discovered a room which apparently had been used for a sleeping room. For a moment he considered climbing onto one of the bunk-beds but instead he hid underneath one. Curling up, John huddled into his jacket and tried to rest without actually falling asleep.

Several times he had to remind himself that the darkness was as much to Charlie's disadvantage as it was to his own and that the situation couldn't be compared to Baskerville. Nevertheless, he had problems trying to relax for panic kept bubbling up inside of him, sending tremors through his body. Sooner or later the constant tension would take its toll. It did keep him alert but would exhaust him in the long run.

Ever so often he nodded off, his body demanding to rest. John guessed it would be morning when an audio-system came to live, startling him enough that he knocked his head against the bottom of the bed.

First an acoustic signal was audible and moments later something that sounded like a proximity effect before an actual voice could be heard.

"Hello, Doctor John, are you still out there?" The question was followed by a crackling noise that quickly turned out to be Charlie's laughter, terribly distorted by the loudspeaker.

"Listen, Doctor John, I composed a poem just for you.

John, who had involuntarily ducked further under the bed when the audio system had come to life, stood up with determination. His posture was stiff and his fingers curled into fists. He was mad at himself for letting that mad man's behaviour getting so very much under his skin but listened with trepidation to the patter of Charlie's disembodied voice over the loud-speaker.

"Doctor John, will soon be gone,

In a shower of blood,

He stepped in a bunker,

In the dark to hunker,

And never was seen again."

John knew the nursery-rhyme of Doctor Foster. It had never made much sense to him. The rhyme Charlie had turned it into, unfortunately, made sense in a quite grizzly way.

All of a sudden John felt something snap inside himself. He was done being the prey. Now he would go out, set a trap and if necessary kill the madman who was hunting him. He was tired, he wanted to find a way out of the bunker and go home. Remembering the corridor he had encountered when he had come in, a plan began to form in John's mind.

oOo

"I need to see the crime scene and I want you to retrieve the text John sent me," Sherlock said.

Greg shook his head while trying to concentrate on the traffic. The cold remedy he had taken an hour ago had cleared his sinuses but if anything his head felt fuzzier than before.

"Try customer service of your phone-company. You know as well as I do that the service provider won't do anything without a court order if Scotland Yard is asking."

"Customer service is incapable to do anything. First it takes hours to get an actual person to talk to you and then whoever it is you're talking to, is beyond incompetent," Sherlock ranted.

"True." Greg coughed. "Why don't you talk to Mycroft? If you apologize nicely he'll surely help you."

"Why should I apologize? You told him to leave the ambulance too."

Stopping at a traffic-light the DI smirked. "Right. May I remind you, that you're the one who's desperate for answers only your brother can provide?" Greg pulled a small container from his pocket and, without looking at the label, took two more capsules for his cold, knocking them down with cold coffee that tasted quite disgusting.

Sherlock wondered why the DI would take a cold-remedy whose name ended with 'nite' during daytime but he kept his mouth shut. He had more important things on his mind.

"I'm going to have a look at the files in your office and you go and see my brother," he suggested eventually.

"Why should I? Besides, as you pointed out, I threw him out as much as you did so I doubt he's going to react any better if I go and ask him for the text John sent you."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth curled slightly. "He likes you."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know why. Probably some sort of presumptuous do-gooder syndrome towards the mentally challenged, he usually keeps hidden."

"Oi, careful, Sherlock. I'm not that mentally challenged. If you want my help, stop insulting me."

The Consulting Detective produced a sound which, providing a healthy dose of good-will from the listener, could be translated into an apology.

"Right," Greg grumbled.

"A bit of grovelling goes a long with my brother."

"I haven't agreed to seeing him yet," Greg replied, knowing he would do it anyway.

When Greg stopped in front of NSY's main entrance he turned to Sherlock. "All right. Try to be civil with Sally and please don't kill each other. I already have enough work piling on my desk."

He watched the lanky Detective hurry inside the building before he was negotiating the car back into the traffic-flow, heading towards Whitehall.

oOo

John was down on his knees, carefully feeling around the open shaft in the floor. He had listened for several minutes and once he came to the conclusion that he was really alone, he held his torch at arm's length inside the shaft and switched it on. A metal ladder attached to the wall led down to a lower level. John guessed it ten to twelve feet down. Enough for a man to get seriously hurt if he fell down.

He switched off the torch and began crawling around the corridor left and right of the opening. He had walked past it when the emergency light had been switched on. For about fifteen minutes he first crawled and eventually walked around carefully. He was trying to form an image in his mind he felt he could rely on for his plan was to lure Charlie here, hoping the man would attack and fall down the shaft. He would rather have tried talking to the man to cooperate with him but he knew that would never work. The man was crazy and couldn't be treated like a normal person.

Now he had to locate Charlie, offer himself as bait and make the man run into his trap.


	9. Chapter 8

Mycroft had been willing to see the DI when the man arrived unannounced at his office. He took in the sorry state his visitor was in. Bad cold as he had predicted, less than three hours of sleep, running a light fever and looking ready to keel over at any given moment.

"Might I ask what medication you took for your cold?"

Greg flopped into the chair the Government official had indicated, pulled the container with his medicine from the pocket of his coat and showed him the label.

"You took a remedy that it clearly to use in the evening?"

That explained why Greg was close to falling asleep right then and there.

"Didn't notice," he told Mycroft in a raspy voice.

"Now, what is it that you want? I doubt you came for medical advice."

He listened to the requests the DI had and when the man had stopped talking he remained silent, taking his time to reply.

"So you want me to retrieve the text Doctor Watson sent my brother yesterday, while you two took a dip in the lock."

Greg nodded peevishly.

"And why would I do that? You and Sherlock made it quite clear my presence was unwanted."

"I'm sorry," Greg said, and he meant it. The elder Holmes was a pain in the arse most of the times but the DI knew the man cared deeply for Sherlock and was probably hurt from the constant rejection. He rubbed a hand over his tired face before he pushed himself out of the chair.

"Look, I can't take back those words but I'm truly sorry. I fear something has happened to John and currently a text he might have sent to Sherlock is our only clue. Your help would be very much appreciated."

Mycroft was tempted to say no but even in his current sorry state a look from the Inspector's brown eyes, combined with a slight tilt of the head, blasted efficiently through his armour of resolute determination. The infuriating man held as much power over him as Sherlock's dog Redbeard once had. The difference was, that Redbeard had only requested biscuits or being allowed to sleep on the sofa instead of access to information.

"Sit down before you fall over. I'll get you a cup of tea and see what I can do. It might take some time to get those texts."

"Thank you."

Mycroft, rewarded with a soft smile, left his office.

When he came back with the cup of tea a few minutes later he found the Inspector fast asleep, sprawled on the sofa that stood in the back of the office.

"You're not getting any biscuits," Mycroft grumbled while taking the man's shoes off and rearranging him to a position that would allow the DI to sleep without suffering from a crick in the neck later on.

Mycroft drank the tea himself and once he had even thrown a blanket over the sleeping man for comfort, he left instructions with a secretary and shrugged into his coat, a heartfelt sigh on his lips. How he loathed legwork.

oOo

After an arduous argument with Sally, Sherlock had been granted access to the file about the murder of Cyrus Winters. Sherlock quickly came to the conclusion that Cyrus hadn't been killed where he had been found and that Carl Sdunek, a man he also knew from the underground network, was the most unlike perpetrator. The cause of death of Carl hadn't been verified yet but Molly had been quite certain from her initial post-mortem examination, it hadn't been because of an internal injury. Most likely he had died as a result of hypoxia; the blueish colour of his lips as well as fingertips were conclusive symptoms.

Sherlock was baffled though by the three Ks, Carl had etched into the floor. He only knew the three Ks as an abbreviation for the Klu Klux Klan. Could the Klan be responsible for the deaths in some obscure way? He had his doubts but stranger things occurred in the city of London.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock snarked, when his brother came strolling into the office.

"I was under the impression you required some information regarding the whereabouts of Doctor Watson. If you changed your mind..." Mycroft turned on his heel to leave.

"Good Lord, you are touchy these days."

When his brother kept walking away, Sherlock called out, "All right. I'm sorry, Mycroft." Willing to feed his sibling that empty phrase for the sake of getting information on his absent flat-mate, revealed how very distressed the younger Holmes truly was.

The Government official rolled his eyes but came back.

"Of course, you are." He pressed a note into Sherlock's hand. "In case you are waiting for the Detective Inspector to return, he decided to take a nap at the sofa in my office."

"He's doing what?" Sally Donovan walked into the office, having overheard Mycroft's words.

"As of this morning he apparently took four capsules of a cold remedy that is specifically designed for the night. I'd say we shouldn't expect him to be around for the duration of at least eight hours."

"Oh joy!" Sally exclaimed, realizing it would be her who had to deal not only with the Freak but the British Government as well.

Meanwhile Sherlock studied the note his brother had handed him. "John has met with Cyrus at Finsbury Park station. That's also where the signal of his mobile was located last. Let's go."

Both Holmes men were half way out of the office before Sally could stop them.

"Wait, the station as well as the area around is already closed down. They're going to detonate the old bunker north of Finsbury Park today."

Sherlock threw his older sibling a scalding glance. "You wouldn't know anything about that?"

"Thank you, Sherlock. You make it sound like it was my idea to blow up the bunker and blast your precious flat-mate to smithereens, provided he is still in the vicinity of the bunker. The area was supposed to be thoroughly searched and evacuated beforehand."

Sally wondered if she should get her mobile out to film Sherlock Holmes killing his brother, considering that the man's expression turned positively murderous.

"But," Mycroft held up his hand, "I made a call on my way here to stop the demolition team. The evacuation is almost complete so I suggest we better hurry." Pointing at Sally, Mycroft added, "And you are to come with us, Sergeant Donovan. You've been in the tunnel before so you might lead my brother to the scene of crime."

Sally rolled her eyes but grabbed her jacket and followed both men downstairs where a sleek black limousine was waiting.


	10. Chapter 9

John had prepared as best as he could. The wound on his hip had begun to ache again and moving around had caused it to start bleeding again too. Taking a deep breath he threw two empty buckets he had ransacked against the wall. As planned his action caused a noise so loud it most certainly could be heard everywhere in the bunker. When the echo had died down, John began shouting and screaming. "Ow, fuck, that hurt. Ow, ow, ow!" He produced sobbing noises, trying to make them sound like he was suppressing them. Quickly he went quiet though, afraid he would miss Charlie's approach.

It didn't take long. Within a couple of minutes John heard footsteps in the darkness and saw a glimmer of light reflecting from a wall. Apparently Charlie had switched on his torch, certain he had won. It was important the man moved in the dark and John was prepared to convince the man that it was better to switch off the light. The moment Charlie came round a corner John began throwing mothballs he had discovered in a cupboard. Just as John had hoped he would, he switched off the torch and kept coming closer.

"Stay away from me," John whined, wincing at his own tone of voice that he used to convince Charlie to approach quickly for he faced helpless prey. John was moving as noiselessly as possible around the open shaft he had been sitting in front of to block it from the madman's view. He moved again and produced another sound like he was in pain.

He heard Charlie coming closer but the man walked too far to the left side. If he kept using that way he would pass the shaft. John swallowed for he did feel bad that he tried to lead the man into the trap that could prove fatal but he saw no other choice. Charlie was only interested in killing him.

Taking some more of the mothballs, John threw them in the direction he thought Charlie was moving and from the sound he had hit him. Another handful of the mothballs and he got lucky. Maybe one of them had hit Charlie in the face because the man suddenly grunted, ran towards John and fell down the open shaft. His cry of surprise was quickly followed by a nasty crashing sound, when he hit the ground down below.

All at once it was completely silent. John leaned against the wall and felt his knees beginning to shake. He allowed them to shake, knowing it was the adrenalin, which was suddenly superfluous. Switching on his own torch, John walked back and forth until he felt calm again. Then he took a deep breath, knelt down and directed the beam of the torch down the shaft. Charlie was lying motionless on his back, his eyes were closed and from the unnatural twist of his lower body he was most likely dead or badly injured. With a relieved sigh, John sat down, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

It had taken Mycroft a couple of phone-calls to ensure the demolition team wouldn't blow up the bunker just yet, although the area had been cleared above as well as under ground. It wasn't certain John was anywhere near where the dead bodies had been found but he understood that Sherlock needed to check out the place for himself and hopefully find a clue about the whereabouts of the doctor.

Armed with powerful torches, they walked along the pathways until they came to the niche where the two dead bodies had been found. "Cyrus wasn't killed here," Sherlock said right away.

"But where did it happen?" Sally asked.

The consulting detective kept walking back and forth, shining with his torch at the ground, the walls and even the ceiling. They were in a labyrinth of corridors, pathways and junctions and since there was no trail of blood or footsteps on the concrete floor one could follow, a search would take forever without another clue.

Sherlock kept walking back and forth while he was muttering to himself and was pulling at his hair in frustration. Mycroft who had stood to the side, not interested in getting his suit dirty, shone around with his own torch until the beam of light illuminated the three letters Carl had etched into the floor.

"I know where we might find another clue," he announced.

Sherlock whirled around and both he and Sally stared at the politician, who looked both arrogant and bored.

"The Kneeling Knight's Kingdom," Mycroft said in a tone of voice that implied both Sherlock and Sally Donovan were supposed to answer with 'of course' or something along that line. Neither one did though, whereupon Mycroft sighed and began to explain.

"When the underground was built, ruins of the old London were discovered. Down here is a room in which a huge stone sculpture had been chiselled into the wall. It shows a knight in a kneeling position. I could give you the whole legend of the sculpture but since this is neither the time nor the place for story-telling, let me just tell you that the room is called the '_Kingdom of the Kneeling Knight_' or the '_Kneeling Knight's Kingdom_'." With a twitch of his mouth he added, "Don't you know anything about the history of London?"

"And where is that room?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to give his brother the pleasure of seeing his younger sibling baffled by his knowledge.

"Have you found any stairs that lead further down, Sergeant Donovan?" Mycroft asked.

"Actually we have. It's the stairs that lead to the entrance of the old bunker."

"Down there you should find the room I was talking about and maybe even a clue where Doctor Watson went." Mycroft turned and began walking back the way they had come. "I rather wait outside and make sure they're not detonating the bunker with us in the vicinity after all."

Sherlock and Sally didn't reply but went running along a corridor that led to the narrow metal staircase. They exchanged glances when Sherlock pointed at traces of blood on one of the steps. More blood at the foot of the staircase and just a little drop in front of the closed door that led to the bunker that was about to get destroyed. Sherlock studied the seal attached to the bunker's door as well as the drop of blood, humming to himself. The seal held the date from two days ago. The drop of blood had a shape that suggested the person bleeding had been running, not upstairs but into the bunker.

After a moment he and Sally went further down the passageway until they came to a wooden door. Flinging the door open, Sally was immediately faced with a screeching woman who pressed a bundle of blankets to her chest.

While Sally stood in front of the woman, telling her who they were and trying to calm her, Sherlock took a look around, immediately spotting a pair of surgical gloves in a bucket, that was filled with all sorts of rubbish.

He grabbed the woman by her arms and shook her. "A doctor was here. Where did he go?"

Startled, she stopped screeching but instead of answering she was looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, clutching the bundle she held even tighter to her chest.

"Speak up, woman. Where did the doctor go?"

"He left with Charlie," she answered eventually. "Don't know where they went. I haven't seen Charlie ever since but he always come back around seven."

"Not today," Sally told her. "We need to get out of here." Sherlock took another look around and when he found no further clue all three left the room.

Surprisingly the woman, she told them her name was Martha, accompanied them without any fuss.

"You have a baby?" Sally asked Martha, indicating the bundle, while they were climbing the stairs.

Martha nodded. "Have to keep Billy wrapped up. He's cold, you know."

Sherlock studied the traces of blood in front of the bunker door as well as the blood on the staircase but kept following the two women eventually.

"Do you know where the doctor and Charlie went?" he asked Martha but the woman's only reaction was that she clutched the bundle even harder and turned her face away.

"Tell me!" he demanded but the woman didn't reply.

Sherlock was about to ask her again but Sally shook her head.

Eventually they arrived at the deserted underground station and after a few more minutes they reappeared outside.

Sherlock looked for his brother and discovered him talking into his phone another hundred meters from the station. Sally and Martha followed Sherlock. The Consulting Detective knew he needed more time. The drop of blood in front of the bunker door looked different from the other traces of blood they had found. He doubted that bunker door really had been sealed two days ago as the date suggested.

When they reached the car, Sally told Martha she would get her a doctor to have a look at Billy. Maybe a doctor could help if he was cold.

Martha immediately turned towards Sally and screamed, "The doctor who was there before, killed my baby. Charlie killed the man who came with the doctor and by now he surely has killed that terrible doctor as well." Martha sounded very pleased by the prospect, that the doctor could be dead by now.

"What?" Sherlock grabbed Martha hard and shook her, his voice full of with resentment. "Where did Charlie go with the doctor?"

Martha shrugged. "Upstairs or perhaps into the bunker. Charlie can tell you when he comes back at seven."

That very moment they heard an alarm go off; the alarm that was sounded one minute before a detonation took place.

Mycroft immediately ended his phone-call and dialled another number. The line was busy and he knew that there was no time for another call. Before Sherlock could do anything stupid, he grabbed him from behind and pulled him against his body. Sherlock turned and was just about to lash out at his sibling, when a muffled bang shook the ground under their feet. With horror Sally looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were squeezed shut while his fingers were curled into fists around the lapels of his brother's coat.


	11. Chapter 10

John drank the last bit of water. Now that the danger of being attacked by Charlie was over, he could concentrate on getting out of the bunker. Still... With a sigh John stood up and looked down the open shaft, studying the motionless body for a moment. He knew he would feel guilty if the man had been injured from the fall and it would have been possible to save him. With utmost care John climbed down the ladder. He quickly checked the body and discovered that Charlie indeed had survived with fractures in both legs and a fractured hipbone. For the man's sake he hoped he stayed unconscious until he could be rescued. Otherwise the pain would be excruciating.

John shone left and right with his torch and discovered an adjacent room. With a shrug he decided to take a small detour before climbing back up. That moment a whole set of explosion resounded through the bunker, turning John's world within seconds into a chaos of ear-splitting noise, falling rubble and choking dust.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes." An elegantly dressed man walked towards the small group of people who stood next to the limousine. "My name is Raymond Lindhurst. I'm in charge here. Jolly good that your group left the site early enough for us to get through the demolition without delay."

Sherlock spun round and without his brother's interference he would have slammed his fist in the man's face.

"Think about the number of charges for having caused bodily harm on your record, brother mine," Mycroft said in a restrained tone of voice while barely perceptible changing his stance. "Whereas I have none," the Government official concluded before delivering a powerful straight punch to Lindhurst's face, efficiently breaking the man's nose.

When John came round he was lying in a corner and was covered with dust and pieces of rubble. Something hard was lying underneath his hip, digging into the tender flesh of the injury he had suffered earlier on. He coughed before he began groping around, only to find that he had landed on his torch. The relief John felt upon finding the torch, was quickly replaced by dread because the beam of light showed him the whole extend of damage. Had John not climbed down the open shaft, he would have been dead already. An explosion that had probably destroyed the whole bunker had closed the shaft by dumping a large chunk of concrete right over the opening. Several large pieces of concrete had fallen down and killed Charlie by smashing his skull.

John got up on his knees and managed to stand up. He staggered into the small room he had seen before. It was occupied by a wooden stool, a small table and a box with a few tools. Underneath the ceiling five orange pipes ran from the left to the right, apparently continuing beyond the room.

Touching the side of his head John discovered a swelling, where a piece of rubble had hit him. He felt slightly concussed, his eyesight was not working properly and he was feeling dizzy. Blinking for a moment he almost envied Charlie, for a quick review of the situation only provided the result that he was entombed. Considering the size of the room, John guessed that he had enough air left to survive for maybe another two hours. He sat down on the stool and stared at the dusty tabletop for a few minutes, his brain unwilling to accept the fate of dying from suffocation under a few tons of rubble, most likely never to be found.

John felt tears welling up, because he didn't want to die now and most certainly not like this. He hadn't envisioned himself going down in a blaze of glory but this kind of death was meaningless and therefore beyond bad. He whipped angrily the back of his hand over his eyes. Digging inside the pocket of his jeans he found a tissue and blew his nose before he pulled out his mobile. Of course, there was no service down here. Still, he began typing a message for Sherlock. Maybe it would find its way to him somehow.

_Dear Sherlock, it's always a bad idea to leave Baker Street before having a cup of tea and without you to keep me out of trouble. _

Well, it was usually Sherlock who got him into trouble in the first place but John was not about to mention that now. He was sorry though that he hadn't taken the time to have a cuppa before he had left to meet Cyrus at Finsbury Station.

_A madman called Charlie killed Cyrus and chased me into a bunker facility. I managed to lure him into a trap but the whole bunker collapsed on top of me – not my fault I might say. I'm literally buried alive and I fear I'm going to die down here._

_I meant to tell you before, thank you, Sherlock, for have given my life meaning again. The only regret I have is that I'd rather spent more time with you, chasing bad guys through London. _

_Ta and good-bye, your friend John_

John pressed the button to send the message, knowing his mobile would try to send it until the battery ran out of power.

Shoving the mobile into the back pocket of his jeans, John wondered what else he could do when his gaze fell upon the pipes. He climbed onto the table and touched the pipes. To his surprise they felt warm to the touch of his fingers. If those pipes were still used to transport warm water, perhaps for heating, there was a small chance he could alert someone. Choosing a hammer from the tool-box he had discovered before, John climbed onto the table and from there on top of the pipes. It was cramped between the ceiling and the pipes but in a way it was also a bit cosy and the warmth of the pipes under his belly felt good.

For as long as he was conscious, John kept hammering SOS in Morse code ever so often and while he did, he missed the soft ping from his mobile that announced the text he had composed for Sherlock had been sent.

* * *

><p>Sorry, dear readers, that you still have to wait for John being rescued but it won't be long now. I promise.<p> 


	12. Chapter 11

An atmosphere of gloom had settled over the occupants of the limousine on the ride back to New Scotland Yard. A couple of social workers had picked up Martha, who had begun to sob quietly once they had taken the dead baby from her for an autopsy at Bart's.

Sally had decided she hadn't observed how Raymond Lindhurst's nose had been broken. First and for once she was in complete agreement with the Holmes brothers, that Lindhurst had deserved the punch. Furthermore she didn't know if her career would come to a very sudden end if she were to testify against the British Government. Right now she sat in the limousine, opposite from Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, wishing she was anywhere but inside this car. She didn't particularly like either Holmes and hoped they would never consider her their adversary. Between the two men another person would have fit comfortably onto the seat but albeit the physical distance, they had never been closer; their brotherly bond stronger than ever.

Without a word Sherlock left the limousine when it stopped at a traffic light near King's Cross Station. Currently nothing supported the theory that John had left the underground tunnels but Sherlock would leave no stone unturned until he had found his only friend. He needed information only his homeless network could provide.

Hurrying towards the train-station, where he knew he would find people who could help, Sherlock felt his stomach growl. He had taken his last meal almost thirty hours ago and his body demanded fuel. Searching in the pocket of his coat for some money that would buy him a sandwich, he felt the mobile phone Mycroft had given him just before they had left Finsbury Park Station. The data from Sherlock's old phone had already been transferred onto the new one. When the phone chirped to announce an incoming message, Sherlock was almost certain it was from his brother.

His heart rate stepped up a notch when he saw it was from John. He anticipated it would be the message his brother had provided him with before but it was a new one.

'_Dear Sherlock_', it began.

Without further ado Sherlock flagged down a cab. Not sooner than he had given the destination to the cabby, he dialled his brother's number. If John was entombed underneath the bunker, Sherlock needed efficient and quick help to rescue him, which Mycroft would be capable of providing.

oOo

"There are rooms underneath that bunker," Sherlock insisted, wondering for the umpteenth time how a city like London didn't crumble from the sheer halfwittedness of those who were running it.

"And you are right, Mr. Holmes," a woman replied, who was just walking into the room. She threw a thick folder onto the desk before stretching out her hand to greet Sherlock. "Alison Watson, Emergency Planning Officer. I got a call from Whitehall that you're in need of competent help."

The three men Sherlock had been talking to until now, were ducking their heads under the merciless scrutiny of the woman.

"You, Percy, go and find out who was in charge of sealing the bunker. Apparently the doors were not sealed properly as mandated. You, Edward, go and get a crew that is capable of drilling an emergency exit for the man, who's trapped down there."

The third man, who had watched the others almost standing at attention before running out of the room to execute the commands they had been given, looked expectantly at his superior. "And what can I do to help" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

The woman's mouth twitched. "You, Jeremy, may go and fetch us some tea and," she studied the lanky Consulting Detective for a moment, "a bag of crisps, if you please." Jeremy dashed away to get the requested tea and crisps.

"Now Mr. Holmes, I happen to be an avid reader of Doctor Watson's blog and since I hope there will be many more blogs in the future I'd say we're all going to do our best to rescue him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but was listening when Alison Watson spread a map on the table and began explaining where the rooms were located she thought her namesake might be in and what she thought would be possible to do, to get him out of his plight.

She had just finished her explanation to Sherlock, who finally found himself in the presence of some competence, when Jeremy came back. He not only brought tea and crisps but also news.

"We got information from a janitor working at Finsbury Park station. He returned to his rooms at the station before he was really allowed to after the evacuation. While he was busy tidying up, he heard a noise coming from the pipes that are running through his office. He said it sounded like someone was banging SOS on the pipes. First he thought it was a trick to make him leave again but when the noise was repeated over and over again, he reported it.

Those were indeed good news because now there was only one room John could be trapped inside. Unfortunately, it was a room with extremely thick walls and it would take some time to drill through, not to mention make a hole large enough to rescue the trapped and perhaps injured man.

oOo

Sherlock was beside himself, while he was watching the crew drilling a hole through the wall. The first hole had the sole purpose of providing some oxygen for John and perhaps to determine if he was still alive. The SOS signals had stopped some time ago and it was entirely possible the trapped man had already died from suffocation or injuries causes by the detonation.

When the drill finally broke through the wall, people at the site almost held their breaths. No sound came from inside the room. A tube, attached to an oxygen tank, was pushed through the hole to enrich the air inside the room. Meanwhile the crew drilled two more holes. A staff with a tiny camera was inserted through one hole; another staff, this one with a powerful light attached, went through the second hole. Several minutes had passed and still no sound came from the room. The camera's first view showed a motionless body. Although the picture on the view-screen was black and white, it was clear to see that the man in the picture was dead.

"That's not John," Sherlock croaked, when he had studied the view-screen, that displayed the video-feed from the camera, for a few seconds.

The man, who was operating the camera, kept doing sweeps. When Sherlock caught site of a hammer, lying on the table, he told the man he should try getting a view from the pipes that ran over the table through the length of the room. The light hardly reached that far but once a few adjustments had been made, a human form that was lying motionlessly on top of the pipes, came into view.

Sherlock brought his mouth close to one of the holes. "John!" he called out.

The man didn't stir.

"John!"

Still no reaction.

"John, it's Sherlock. Do something, anything. Please!"

Alison Watson's heart went out, when she heard the desperation in the Detective's voice.

"There!" one of the men shouted and pointed at the view-screen. In the gloom light John's left arm, which that had hung down limply, began to twitch visibly. The people, staring at the screen, began muttering among themselves in excited voices when the movement became more coordinated. A groan could be heard and Sherlock called out again, his mouth pressed to one of the holes.

"John!"

"Sherlock?" The voice was scarcely audible but the whole of the crew that was present to rescue the trapped doctor broke out into cheers.

It took them nearly eighteen hours to free John Watson from his prison. When the doctor had felt strong enough to move, he had climbed down from the pipes. He had been provided with water and protein drink through a tube, so when they had eventually created a hole large enough for him to climb out, he wasn't that exhausted.

Sherlock's presence had been an incentive to the crew on site, motivating them to get their work done as quickly as possible. Hovering close by, he queried the competence of every single person present and shouted abuse when he saw fit, until John told him to either shut up or go home. To everybody's relief, the Detective spent the next two hours sulking in a corner, which sped up the work quite a bit.

Early next morning Mycroft Holmes scared the whole lot of workers by paying the site a visit to see how things were progressing; in his wake a still coughing but at least well rested Detective Inspector, who had been ejected from the Government official's sofa rather rudely less than an hour ago.

The working site erupted with cheers again when John Watson, dirty but very much alive, finally climbed through the hole that led to freedom. Not giving a toss about dirt and quite a bit of dried blood, Alison Watson engulfed the startled doctor into a hug as soon as he had cleared the hole; ignoring a glaring Sherlock in the process.

John had to endure several well-meant pats on his shoulder until he finally managed to leave the vicinity together with his flat-mate.

After a quick detour to the hospital, John could finally climb the seventeen steps that led to his and Sherlock's flat. To Sherlock's chagrin it was John who used up all the hot water before he collapsed, squeaky clean and dressed in his oldest and most comfortable dressing-gown, into his chair. Mrs Hudson had tea ready and had made a pie, both John and Sherlock wolfed down with equal gusto.

An hour later Mrs Hudson sat in her flat, drinking tea and smiling softly at the ceiling because the flat above her own was exceptionally quiet.


	13. Epilogue

Sherlock wondered what he was supposed to say, once John had finished his tale. For a lack of words he thought John might find appropriate, he remained still.

John spent several minutes in silence with Sherlock, finding comfort in the familiar presence of his friend. He felt drained but also relieved from having shared his fears as well as his thoughts.

Outside a lorry drove past and in the distant the siren of a police-car could be heard, interrupting the silence in the typical manner of London.

"You said, you would have dreaded dying down there because it was meaningless." Sherlock's voice seemed loud although he had spoken softly.

John nodded.

"So, dying for the right cause would have been", Sherlock hummed before deciding on an expression, "perhaps not all right but acceptable?"

"In a way, yes," John answered truthfully, when he had considered what he thought Sherlock had been asking.

While they pondered the question of sacrificing their life for a friend, both reaching the conclusion that it was something John Watson would do but not Sherlock Holmes, it began to rain outside. The drops were sounding like hesitating fingers tapping against the windowpane. Once more a hush fell over the flat. Had anybody bothered to look through the window that very moment, he would have seen two individuals who could only together form a harmonious whole; oblivious that fate would teach one of them in the not so distant future that the conclusions he had just drawn about self-sacrifice were wrong.

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><p>Thank you all again for reading, following, reviewing and of course rewarding the story with marking it as a favorite. I enjoy to hearing from all who comment. Also thank you so much again to Mapleleafcameo for beta-ing. And to Johnsarmylady the story was for, it's been a pleasure writing for you.<p> 


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